


Fishin' in the Dark

by Lissadiane



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 02:31:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18714700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lissadiane/pseuds/Lissadiane
Summary: Bucky can think of so many other ways he can be having a good time with Barton, in so many different positions.He finishes his beer and compartmentalizes the shit out of that thought because Barton is his friend and deserves more than to be the unwilling subject of the first sexual fantasies Bucky has had in 70 goddamn years.That ass though.Bucky needs another motherfucking beer.





	Fishin' in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).



> This unbeta'd disaster was written in exchange for a certain someone to do their laundry. Nice job with the adulting, little one. I hope you like it. HAPPY CLEAN LAUNDRY DAY!

The bar is dark, crowded, smoky and anonymous -- it could be anywhere, past or present, which is specifically why Barton had chosen it, Bucky knows.

It’s only just been recently that Bucky has felt comfortable leaving the tower to go anywhere at all, and unfamiliar places were always touch and go, but this -- this place feels familiar though he’s never been here before. Same low lighting, same beat up jukebox, same barflies with heavy eyelids who let their gaze linger just a little too long on his jaw, his mouth, his shoulders. They’d let their hands linger too, he knows, but he never lets them close enough.

Maybe he would have, before. But before was a long time ago.

And now he just finds comfort in the smell of stale beer, sweat, and old smoke.

He leans a hip against a pillar, strung up with christmas lights even though it’s July, with a foil shamrock hanging limply near the ceiling that no one’s bothered to take down. Barton’s playing darts and Bucky is, well. Enjoying the view.

There was a time when even admitting that he was enjoying the view was something Bucky didn’t let himself have, but he’s gotten used to it now. After all, looking doesn’t mean giving himself permission to touch, his therapist tells him, just about ever fuckin’ week when Bucky musters up the courage to express how concerned he is to have feelings. For fuckin’ Barton.

It’s a disaster.

Barton’s a disaster.

Bucky likes to think he had taste, before.

But before was a long time ago.

And Barton’s got impressive shoulders of his own and Bucky’s gotten used to letting his gaze linger there.

Bucky takes another drag of his lukewarm beer, letting it sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing, just as Barton lines up another shot.

The fucker is carefully turning the dartboard into Captain America’s fucking shield, Bucky knows that’s what he’s doing, and it’s irritating as fuck that he’s got the ability to do that, and also kind of hot.

Bucky takes another sip of beer.

The jukebox kicks in with something jangly and country and they’re singing about fishing in the dark and Bucky thought Brooklyn had more taste than this, but a few people are already making their way to the dancefloor to two step, and he loses just a little respect for them. For this place. For Brooklyn. Possibly for Barton for claiming he knew a place where he could show Bucky a good time.

Barton throws another dart and Bucky watches the play of muscles in his back and shoulders and thinks, okay. Maybe he is having a good time. 

But he can think of so many other ways he can be having a good time with Barton, in so many different positions.

He finishes his beer and compartmentalizes the shit out of that thought because Barton is his friend and deserves more than to be the unwilling subject of the first sexual fantasies Bucky has had in 70 goddamn years.

That ass though.

Bucky needs another motherfucking beer.

Barton’s already drunk as fuck, so he doesn’t get one for him, because he doesn’t want to have to carry Barton out of here --

He _doesn’t_.

But the thought is giving him ideas.

“Hey, Barton,” he says, because he needs a distraction. “You wanna play pool?”

Barton flashes a slow grin over his shoulder and says, “I will destroy you, Bucky Barnes, and it will be my absolute pleasure.”

He cocks a sloppy finger gun.

Seriously. Bucky used to have fucking _standards_.

How is Clint Barton so goddamn hot and endearing at the same time?

The only saving grace in all of this is that no one knows. And no one will ever know. 

Bucky downs half his beer and wishes he could get drunk as fuck and then Barton lines up what looks like his last shot to complete the star in the middle of the shield --

And some asshole with more muscles than common sense -- some beefy, leather-wearing biker dude who probably thinks Barton’s an easy fucking mark because he’s clearly drunk and clearly too pretty to be in a shithole like this -- knocks into Barton, sends the dart flying just an inch wide, knocking into one of the star’s points, and sending three darts tumbling to the floor.

There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then Barton spins on his heel to face the guy, shoulders up around his ears, fists raised, feet taking up a fighting stance, and he hisses, “What the actual fuck is your problem?”

The biker raises both hands and smirks and says, “Watch where you’re going, buddy.”

“ _That was Captain America’s shield_ ,” Barton growls, like knocking a few darts off the board is treason. 

“Was it? Looked to me like you just couldn’t hit the goddamn bullseye.”

It’s bullshit. Anyone with half a brain could see that Barton’s aim and ability was pretty much fucking perfect, and Bucky kinda wants to punch the guy in the face for daring to suggest that it’s anything less than that.

He’s not going to, though, because he’s got a metal fist, he doesn’t want to start a fight, his therapist would be incredibly disappointed, he’s not sure he’s got bail money, and worst of all -- absolutely worst of fucking all -- is that Steve’ll make that face. That disappointed face. And probably start an international incident to keep Bucky from going to jail for assault.

And then Bucky doesn’t have to think up any more reasons to keep from committing violence, because Barton’s drawing back a fist to do it for him.

“Whoa, hey, okay, pal,” Bucky says, stepping neatly in front of Barton, taking the drunken punch to the shoulder.

It doesn’t hurt.

Well, maybe a little. He’s seen Barton’s biceps a time or two, not to mention his shoulders, okay, he knows how much power the guy’s got.

Barton’s eyes narrow and he glares down at Bucky and says, “He said--”

“I know,” Bucky says, aiming for soothing, because up close, he can see (and smell) just how intoxicated Barton is.

He’s still fucking gorgeous, but he’s also drunk as hell, so allowances must be made.

“Then let me punch him in the face!” He lifts his fists again.

“I can’t do that,” Bucky says, “You’ll break him and Steve’ll be sad.” And then offers, “How ‘bout I take you home instead? We can order pizza. And watch that show of yours.”

Barton’s eyes narrow even more and he says, skeptically, “Dog Cops?”

“Yeah, sure. Dog Cops.”

“...Okay.”

“You need your boyfriend to fight your damned battles for you, pretty boy?” the biker dude asks, because he’s apparently got a death wish.

Bucky turns, slow, giving himself plenty of time to take a nice deep, calming breath. He’s gonna tell his therapist about this moment and she is going to be so fucking excited because he is about to use his words instead of his fists to put the fear of god into someone.

Behind him, Barton seems to suddenly realize that an innocent asshole of a civilian has decided to antagonize the Winter Soldier, and he grabs Bucky by the wrist. The metal wrist.

“Are you _sure_ I can’t punch him in the face?” Barton asks from behind him, wistful.

“Yes,” Bucky says, his voice clipped, sharp.

“But what if I only break him a little bit?”

“If anyone’s gonna break him,” Bucky says, calm and deliberate. “It’s going to be me.” The biker dude goes a little pale, looking from Bucky’s face to his metal arm and back again. He’s even paler now. “And when I do, I’ll take him apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left for his family to find.”

It’s not the most creative threat, but something in the silky, confident delivery -- which suggests that this is perhaps something Bucky has done at least half a dozen times in the past -- seems to have the desired effect and the asshole stumbles back a few steps, stammering apologies.

He doesn’t piss himself, which is a bit of a letdown, and Bucky wonders if he’s losing his touch.

He grabs the three darts off the floor, hands them to Barton, and says, “Here you go, doll, finish your shield.”

Barton blinks, slow, looking stunned, and takes the darts even slower.

Bucky doesn’t realize what he said until the last dart lands perfectly at the tip of the star and Barton does a little victory dance.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck has Bucky done.

The only positive here, he decides, as Barton stumbles off to pay his tab, is that Barton is drunk as fuck and won’t remember that Bucky accidentally called him _doll_.

Bucky knows what this is. He knows it’s purely physical, just a stupid crush. It’s his libido waking up after a 70 year nap and getting all flustered by Barton’s pretty face and prettier arms. It’s nothing deeper than that. 

His therapist as told him a dozen times that sexual attraction is perfectly normal and nothing to be afraid of and that’s all this is.

That’s all it fucking is.

Bucky reminds himself of that over and over as the Uber drives them back to Manhattan. Barton is unusually subdued, but he’s curled up against Bucky’s side, mumbling something about how the world is spinning, and if he needs Bucky to be his anchor, well. Bucky doesn’t mind.

He slips an arm around Barton’s shoulders and holds him tight so the world stops spinning and ignores his pounding heart.

He has to practically carry Barton up the elevator and it’s not half as sexy as he had thought it might be, back at the bar when he was picturing it a little differently.

But he still doesn’t mind.

Barton’s half asleep when they make it to his room, far too gone for pizza or Dog Cops, and Bucky tucks him into bed instead.

“Pizza,” Barton mumbles. “And Dog Cops.”

“Rain check on that,” Bucky tells him, unable to help feeling a little soft at the sulky look on Barton’s stupid face.

It’s okay. It’s just physical.

And then Barton twists a fist in Bucky’s shirt, tugs him down, and presses a sweet, sloppy kiss to his forehead. “It’s a date,” he says, falling back to his pillow, eyelids fluttering shut. He smirks sleepily and then adds, “Doll.”

Aww, fuck, Bucky thinks, staring down at him as Barton starts to snore. 

Feelings.

He is so, so fucked.

THE END!


End file.
